Cold is where the heart is, or, our summer sailing vacation

To know me is to know I hate to be cold. So why I've chosen a pastime, sport, hobby, activity, or whatever you want to call it that almost requires cold air, I'm not sure. Give me a sunbeam any day just like a cat and I'm a happy camper. Friends don't call me Kitty or L-Cat for nothing.

Here in the Northwest, we rarely have a warm wind. And it's only hot enough a few days a year for a wind chill to feel good. The temperature range of our Puget Sound waters or anywhere in our Salish Sea varies between the mid 40s and mid 50s (f), where hypothermia can set in almost immediately should one accidentally fall in (there are few of us who dip more than a toe intentionally, at least not without a wet or dry suit), and death is pretty much guaranteed after being immersed for not more than an hour. Much of our wind blows straight off that water.

Forrest loves all things boat, and I'm pretty crazy for them - and him - too. He bought his first Seattle-based sailboat just shy of three years ago, gutted it, put it back together, and got it under sail for the first time two years ago. I took sailing lessons. We day sail. Together, we've been out for more than a day just twice so far.

And so it was inevitable that we would take a sailing vacation. Our first was just this week. Six days on the 30' S/V Kennisis from Shilshole Marina to Sucia Island, the most northerly of the San Juan's, and back to Shilshole, with less than half a tank of diesel and an arsenal of sails.

By any description, here in the Northwest we're currently enjoying a stunningly gorgeous, hot-by-our-standards Indian summer. On the water, the sun is high, the winds are varied, and mostly, the temperature is anywhere from cool to cold.

Sailing is awesome. Moving a boat along under pure wind and sail is magical, amazing, exciting, and sometimes mesmerizingly fun. When the wind and currents are just right and the boat hits 6, 7, 8 knots or more, it's pure delight. Hit the wake from a passing ship and it's a carnival ride, only better.

However, to stay even remotely comfortable most days on the water, I resemble a weeble wobble with my 3 - 6 layers of various weights and fabrics. I'm sure Forrest would prefer I take more time with the sails, but hoisting and trimming sails can be hard work and while these can induce a sweat for a few minutes, wicking is tough with that many layers, and layering and de-layering isn't efficient or convenient. So my place is typically at the helm, doing my best to stay warm and keep us on course.

Overall, our trip was fantastic. We stopped twice in Port Townsend (well, 2.5), home of beautiful wooden boats, a crazy mix of tourists, boaters, disaffected youth and counterculture throwbacks, gateway to the Strait of Juan DeFuca, northerly islands, and really, the entire world. There is no shortage of coffee shops, restaurants that serve local organic food, kitschy gift stores, art galleries, and you can find every type of boating anything. With the Olympic Mountains the backdrop for Victorian homes, classic brick buildings, ferries and passing ships, it's a beautiful and delicious place for a short visit.

The Strait can be a wild ride. Currents collide, winds whip down adjoining straits and waterways. It can be unpredictable, the scourge of vessels large and small. Or it can be smooth as glass, with nary a breeze to move a small boat. That's what we got. No wind. Neither north nor south.

We motored across to Fidalgo to fuel up (stove alcohol to ensure a continuous flow of coffee), finally leaving Whidbey and the ongoing air parade of fighter jets behind. Then onward up Rosario Strait by sail and d-sail, passing Decatur, Blakely, and Cypress, then into the Georgia Strait alongside Orcas Island's northwest shore. We paused at Matia, then sailed on to Sucia, at last tying up to a mooring buoy in the aptly named Fossil Bay. A handful of boats and the dramatic island landscape framed a spectacular sunset.

A gorgeous morning prompted a leisurely start with coffee in the cockpit - in shorts (topped with fleece) - followed by a dingy trip to shore to replenish our water supply, visit a composting toilet (something I remembered from sailing days gone by), chat with the park ranger, and go for a short hike out to Fox Point, where the cliffs are steep and the beaches rocky. According to the Washington State Parks site, Sucia is consistently ranked as one of the top boating destinations in the world. A marine park, the island is accessible only by private boat (as are many of the San Juan islands).

A man-made breakfast of bacon and eggs gave us sustenance to layer up and hoist the main sail. We glided gently out of the bay, taking photos, in awe of the contrasting landscape; the east shore is heavily marked with evergreens, while the west is dotted with arbutus (madrona) and defined by fossilized rocks.

While changing sails in President Channel, still north of Orcas, we're passed by a beautiful Morgan 45 (Kennisis is a 1973 Morgan 30-2), whose name I meant to remember, and the perfectly refurbished 1929 David B, which now offers charters throughout the inland waters. The chug-a-chug sound of its antique engine could lure anyone to the great white north.

Southbound, we again have little wind. It's warmer, but slower, and not nearly as much fun. We motorsail through San Juan Channel, past San Juan Island and the ever-busy Friday Harbor, beyond Shaw and past Lopez back into a glassy Strait. Until the engine dies. At dusk. Forrest is skilled and talented with anything mechanical, but it's a long way across the Strait and with a sketchy motor and a setting sun, we retreat with fewer RPMs into MacKaye Harbor at south Lopez. The red sky couldn't be more amazing as it beams a fiery streak across the water, and the harbor is entirely picturesque with the outlines of boats amid the shadows and stillness. For the first time, we dropped anchor.

The harbor proved to be both an amusing and unsettling place to wake up. The morning sky was already blue and the air held only a slight chill. But creeping in at dusk presented a very different picture than the early morning view. There were boats I hadn't noticed, houses on the shoreline that weren't visible, and what looked to be a mooring buoy on the way in was probably a rock flagged by a previous boater. Even the island's outline looked different.

Dolphin? Looks much smaller from a distance.
When it was just off our starboard side,
right next to the boat, it was pretty big. 

We were eager for an early start, just in case. Again, no wind in the Strait, but the engine revvs up. About halfway across, it hiccups and stops. While Forrest is below working on the fuel line, something breaches to starboard, catching me off guard and taking my breath away. Forrest was convinced I made it up until the giant mammal finally reappeared a bit further away, this time on our port side. We concur that it must be the biggest dolphin either of us have seen, although it was big enough to be a small whale (and since an Orca is technically a dolphin... ). By the time we got the camera, it was further away and quite a bit smaller. Regardless, it was impressive. While this was clearly the largest, we saw a lot of finned critters on this trip.

Including en route back to Port Townsend. Having pulled in for the afternoon to regroup, walk around, have lunch and get our bearings, we headed south again. A couple hours out, with no wind, the current against us, and a sputtering motor, we turned around for a final evening in PT. The school of dolphins that surrounded us as we made our way back in was quite a sight - I stopped counting at a dozen. But by then I just couldn't go below to get the camera. As it was, I was ready to be tucked into a marina for the night, warm and safe. We found a slip as the sun set, then trekked ashore for steamed muscles and clams loaded with garlic and butter, along with a hearty salad of fresh local greens, at the Port Hudson marina restaurant.

Forrest sent me off on my own the next morning so he could work on the fuel line and throw temper tantrums if needed. None were, however, so we met at "Better Living Through Coffee" after I'd ascended and descended the terrace stairs that connect upper and lower PT. A quick walk through the upper PT farmers market, a pastry stop at Sweet Laurette's, and a few photos were all I had time for before a short text changed my course. Once we primed our own pumps with sufficient caffeine, we again pressed on to Admiralty Inlet.

And what a day! For just the second time since he's had this boat, we flew the spinnaker. The sun was hot; the wind, light but enough. Coming into Shilshole, we were wing and wing, dodging cruise ships, ferries, fishing boats and other sailors, with nearly perfect weather for a leisurely sail (a beam reach would have added excitement, but by then, it was late and we were tired). We tied up to our slip about 8 p.m., dragging out the last bit of sail and sunlight. A happy hour stop at Ray's Cafe capped the week.

Every moment was worth it despite the necessary layers of clothing. That said, I realize that for me, being warm is essential. Once I'm too cold, functionality diminishes. Add in a healthy dose of tiredness, and I can be fairly worthless without an adrenaline kick. Earlobe-to-toe woolies? Not sure they're the answer (although I recall seeing a pretty intriguing all-in-one piece at Outdoor Research). But I know I have to figure it out as there are more sailing adventures ahead. Better base layers, and an effective sun/wind screen for my lips, and I'll be ready to go again.

Next up, however, is a warm vacation destination. My heart is definitely wherever Forrest is, and I do love sailing, but hey, "warm hands, warm heart." Warm hands will definitely warm my heart. 


UPDATE: Forrest put together a video here.

Fresh picked

Ah, the joys of foraging. There are few flavors as delightful as the sweet tart juice of a ripe blackberry. Found nearly everywhere throughout our urban jungle, this abundant and pervasive berry grows thick on trails, in alleys, in parks, backyards, and empty lots, and anywhere else a seed can take root and spread vociferously.

Here in the Northwest, the Himilayan's are plentiful. A short break from work and I'm out on the Interurban Trail, helpless, sucked in every few steps to pick another handful, dodge thorns, and attempt to keep the berries from staining my hands and clothes.

I have a method. I pick a handful, hold on to them, continue to pick, and shove the newly picked into my mouth while keeping the handful for eating while walking.

These aren't native to the Northwest. They're invasive, and we welcome them only in August and September when they're bulging with berries; the rest of the year, they're a thorn in the sides of anyone charged with landscaping. A message into our our general email box at work asked whether the berries on the trail were sprayed. I had to inform the sender that they were, in fact, a weed, and if sprayed, they would die.

That said, the berries can be found in the stores here during the height of the season, sometimes for as much as $6 a pound. I just can't bring myself to pay for them, although I'll admit to being occasionally tempted when I haven't had time to pick them.

We fought the good fight in our own backyard. When I was a kid, my grandfather kept the bushes manageable. I had tunnels and pathways throughout so I could get to the best berries. But over the years, long after he was gone, they just kept growing, and spreading, until they covered much of the back yard and lot.

Close to a decade ago now, we decided they should go, along with all the other invasives, and Forrest dug them out - root by root, thorny stem by thorny stem. Some of the roots were 8 ft. long and at least six inches around. The effort to remove them was arduous and valiant.

Today, we still come across a fledgling vine, and it's quickly dispatched. I miss the berries, but it's much more satisfying to have a yard and multiple gardens that produce for more than a month.

While not quite as accessible as a few steps away, the roadside thatch is enough. I could still make the jams, jellies, pies and cobblers I grew up with if I felt so compelled. But for now, I'm happy just to pick a daily handful (or five) and savor the memories of melting ice cream on a fresh-from-the-oven (or in one case, the Coleman stove) cobbler.

Manual transmission... (or, a girl and her car, and the power of choice)

I always fancied myself a good driver, and at one point even considered doing driver training at a local race track. While I didn't pursue the training, I've had a thing for driving since I was a kid - I loved my Matchbox cars and my Tonka truck at least as much as I loved Barbie dolls. I'd make roads for these wee little hot rods anywhere I could, and later, I'd ride my two-wheeler up and down the block, into neighboring driveways, imagining my bike was a car. I'd sit behind the wheel of my mom's old Ford and pretend to drive long before I got my learner's permit. I loved the feeling of navigating windy roads - even when the roads were only in my mind.

When it comes to the real thing, my most basic requirement, after a body and four wheels, is a manual transmission. I've been driving a stick shift since I bought my first five-speed about 25 years ago - a car I didn't know how to drive when I bought it and had to have someone drive home for me. But there was no way I was buying an automatic. Why? Good damn question. Something about the road beneath my wheels, the illusion of control.

Another essential was just two doors. No four-door sedan for me, no sir. Another good "why" question. I think having just two doors plays to a self image of myself as a hip, take charge driver of a sporty little convertible without the impracticality. (Even if whatever car I drive in no way resembles a sports car.)

I've pondered getting a new-to-me car for a few years now. But giving up my little 1989 Toyota Corolla is hard. Perhaps ridiculous, but it's been part of my identity my entire time back in Seattle.

However, when I bought it in 1998, I thought I'd keep it a year, no more. It wasn't ideal, but my previous car - a newer Corolla - was totaled by a hit-and-run driver, I didn't have a job, was moving back to the states, and the Canadian dollar was at an all time low. I got paid out by my B.C. insurance company in those dwindling Canadian dollars so I didn't have much to work with.

But now, 14 years later, it's been an awesome little car. My 'green' side regularly tells me that it's more eco-friendly to keep an old car than to get something new after all the monetary and environmental costs of manufacturing a new one. And if I were to buy one, what would I get? Should I buy electric, diesel, or a little econo model?

My physical response to those questions was immediate anxiety followed by paralysis. Sure, the Corolla burns a bit more oil now, but it consistently passes emissions tests, the gas mileage is decent, I can take it almost anywhere, and it's still fun to drive. Financially, I haven't missed having a car payment, insurance is cheap, and car tabs are next to nothing. So I take it in for regular quarterly maintenance, and give thanks every day that it's still going at 260,000+ miles. Until now.

Well, the car is still going, but I have retired my use of it. In the midst of my emotionally trying summer, I bought a brand new car. A 2013. Really? Yes, really. The afterglow is a bit more afterpale, as I'm continually second guessing myself. I hate to admit it, but I have on many occasions bought a piece at Nordstrom, brought it home, thought about it a while, then returned it (tags on, of course. I'm not one of those people!). Example: When searching for a pair of black boots one year, I must have brought home over the course of several months more than a dozen pairs from almost as many shoe stores - finally settling on a pair post-season with the reward for my efforts a 70% discounted price. Can't do that with a car...

The new six-speed, two-door coupe is a Hyundai Elantra - the first Elantra with just two doors. Research tells me there's not much of a market for two-door cars these days - just 22,000 Scion tCs were sold in the US in 2011 (a car I'd considered). But still the Elantra holds its value (despite the initial loss driving off the lot), it gets exceptional gas mileage, and the warranty is second to none.

Despite a fair price, it is a big expense, and it's a new monthly payment at an inconvenient time. The body is bigger than I'm used to, I can't quite get my seat oriented right, and it's not at all sports car like. I'm told it looks a bit cat like. Because it's actually a fraction of an inch longer than a four-door, it's kind of a sedan in disguise.

So I'm conflicted - albeit a waste of energy given that car dealers don't subscribe to the Nordstrom return policy. Here's the mind bending at its best:

• My conservative side wishes I'd looked around more and taken more time with my decision, maybe found something less expensive, and I'm completely befuddled by brand new.
• Various family voices pay a visit and offer their unsolicited opinion about taking on a car loan. But at 1.99% interest, really? If I'd paid cash, there would be no point in getting something different. While spending a lot on a car goes against my grain, this is reasonable. And I currently have the resources and credit rating to do this.
• My professional side says, "Why not? Your colleagues have much newer cars, and most of them are pretty nice. You need to present yourself professionally."
• My social justice side kicks in with some guilt, and I picture the guys standing under the Ballard Bridge with requests for help. In my Toyota, I was inconspicuous and presumably not much better off than they were.
• The environmental side is disgusted by the off-gassing of all the interior fabric and plastics (but happy about the gas mileage).
• Then there's my rebellious, ego-centric side that says, "but wait, didn't you want a Genesis, an Audi, or a sweet little cabriolet?" Not a lot of cache with a Hyundai, but then, the Hyundai was a lot more affordable - both now, and later (when it's time for maintenance or repairs).
• The wanna-be adventurer reminds me the purchase price would cover a lot of plane tickets, or add up to a lot of boat dollars. (But hey - it does hold its value!)
• Then there's the proverbial self doubting side that whispers, "Do you really think you deserve a new car?" Actually, yes. Maybe for the first time, I don't question what I deserve. I recognize that I have many choices and I make pretty sound ones most of the time.

(An aside: a lesson in choice came from the Landmark Forum ages ago. Choose - chocolate or vanilla. Doesn't matter which, just choose. But of course we all felt compelled to rationalize our choice. When no rationale was requested or needed. The only thing that matters is making a choice. A similar lesson came while working at an ad agency - make a decision, any decision, as long as you make one. Not making a choice is also a choice.)

Hyundai was a good choice. I know this. They've done some great work with styling and quality improvements over the last several years. And did I mention the gas mileage and the warranty?

In the month I've had it, I've become surprisingly attached to a couple of features I never knew I needed: heated seats, hands-free calling and a USB port (I can plug in my Zune!). It has A/C (my Toyota's AC stopped working last year), which was handy since we finally hit 90+ degrees - the first time in more than two years (imagine, two summers never passing the 90 degree mark - but I digress...). Cruise control I can take or leave (detracts from the driving experience), and satellite radio is fun for now (free trial) but unnecessary as I'm quite happy with NPR, our local progressive talk radio, and a few local music stations. A few features I've never had that I could probably live without are electric windows and remote locking, although they're convenient.

What I'm really happy about: all the interior and exterior lights work when they're supposed to, there's a special place for my sunglasses and a lighted vanity mirror in the driver's side visor, my seatbelt retracts as it should, and my gas gauge not only works, but I get a reading of my average mileage per tank and how much farther I can go with what's left based on my average use.

So, while I'm still second guessing myself, it wasn't a bad idea and how lucky am I to be able to drive something brand new? It's safe, it's economical, it's pretty to look at, and I can fit real people in it. Despite my kvetching, I can even afford it.

Gratitude. That's where it's at, and that's what I have to focus on. This fall and winter, when the rain comes back en force, I will be very very happy with this decision. So why not have a new car? It's a pretty fortunate place to be.

Three deep breaths...

When I was a kid, my grandfather would stand at the top of the back stairs every morning, look out at the Olympic Mountains, and take three deep breaths. He insisted this was essential for good health. Perhaps it's the deep breathing that let him live to 70, despite being a lifelong smoker. I don't really remember the smoking, but I do remember that back porch ritual. 

Overlooking Puget Sound and
the Olympic Mountains from
Sunset Hill Park.

Breathing is one of those things we shouldn't have to think about. Isn't it about the most natural thing we do? Without oxygen, we'd cease to exist.



Getting enough air isn't easy for all of us. I attempt to breeze through my life as a recovering Type A, but there seems to be a residual pattern of frequent shallow breathing. In addition to pre-behavioral adjustment, I attribute this breathing pattern in large part to perpetual allergies, low-grade, persistent anxiety, and chronic lack of sleep (at least, I hope that's all it is). While I've likely had more than my fair share of stress over the years, relatively speaking, my life is pretty manageable right now. Perhaps breathing badly is learned? Or am I more stressed out than I realize? To get effective breath much of the time, I have to breathe consciously. In through the nose, into the guts, hold, exhale.  

That said, I was reminded of the dangers of stress on our health when Joe Piscatella came to talk with us at work earlier this week. He had heart disease at age 32 and doctors didn't expect him to live past 40. That was 35 years ago. He changed his life: both his diet and exercise routine, and he learned to manage his stress. His book, Don't Eat Your Heart Out, had a significant impact on my diet and attitude when I read it in the mid-80s. He's since written many more and speaks internationally about the affect lifestyle has on our health over genetics. Something I've been spouting since... well, maybe since I read his book.

I have to remember to breathe. Mr. Piscatella offered up a useful exercise that takes my usual breathe in/breathe out attempts a little further. In addition to turning off the television nightly news - should anyone really still watch it - he suggests the following:

Take a deep breathe in through your nose letting your belly expand outward. Hold and pull your abdominal muscles in. Exhale through your mouth over five beats. Repeat.

Trust me - this is much easier than bending over and putting your head between your knees, which I've found myself doing on occasion. Actual "breathwork" has always sounded a little too new agey for me, but I think I may look into it and see what that kind of practice has to offer. Meditation has always been difficult, but if I have a focus like very specific breathing, maybe that'll help.


UPDATE (8/28/12): My naturopath Eva tells me I breathe through my mouth which impacts the quality and quantity of air I take in. It's like miniscule, ongoing hyperventilation, and I also breathe in unfiltered particles and who knows what which leaves me vulnerable to viruses, infections, etc. Not to mention that I just don't get good breaths. So I do need to consciously focus on my breathing; Eva even suggested that if I need to, I could tape my mouth shut. If I'm breathing so hard I can't breathe through my nose, I'm doing too much. Oh - and use the neti pot. Joy.   

It comes in threes...

"Stuff comes in threes." How many times have I heard that?

While it can be applied to anything, the idea or belief that things happen in triplicate is usually applied to things that are weird, unusual, or just plan unpleasant. Maybe we notice the 'threes' because we pay more attention when bad things happen, and we're ready for them to stop at a certain point. Good things could just keep happening.

I'm not sure I buy it, but right now it's ringing true.

• I attended my aunt's memorial in Los Angeles this weekend; she left the mortal coil about a month ago after living with Alzheimer's, such as living with this disease is, for about five years. I didn't know her well. She didn't want to know me as a child; as an adult, long after my dad died, she welcomed me back into her life and helped me learn about their family - the paternal side that I knew less than a paragraph about growing up. I'm grateful for that opportunity, and her willingness to at last see from a different lense.
• My 98-year-old neighbor, a pillar in my world, a woman who knew me my entire life, my mom as a teenager, my grandparents, and so many more, left us on Friday. She was my evidence that we don't have to leave this world prematurely, as so many in my own family have. Although she's been ready to go for a while, until recently, she maintained her health and independence. But over the last two years or so, her quality of life deteriorated. She couldn't spend time in her garden, and she finally gave up driving. It's difficult to comprehend that she's no longer just across the street, keeping an eye on the neighborhood, or telling stories of former neighbors, friends and events.
• A woman I've known nearly all my life - we were kids together - was diagnosed with cancer just three weeks ago. Not quite two weeks ago, she had surgery to remove the tumors in her throat. She was going in for more tests this week, but on Monday night, something was very wrong so she called 911. By the time the medics came, she had to be revived, and now she's in the hospital, unconscious. While the human spirit is capable of much and she has two young boys she loved beyond anything, it doesn't look like she's going to recover. She's 49.

None of these are really "about me." But I am deeply sad and feel very affected. Mortality is an interesting thing. We don't know how long we're here. So many leave us before it seems they should - my mom at 64, my dad at 28, my aunts at 48 and 60, grandparents at 68 and 70, cousins at 18, 52, and 54, and countless friends and acquaintances gone at a young age. Yet one could argue that we all have our time - fate, destiny, whatever you might call it (Forrest says, "If you're meant to be drown, you won't be hanged").

Or as one friend says, there are lessons for those of us left behind.

If I could, would I want to know what the future really holds? Probably not. I think it would be hard to understand those lessons and see the gifts or silver linings without truly experiencing them. Currently, lessons coming to mind are:

• not leaving anything left unsaid (especially to those we care about),
• asking myself what's really important,
• planning for the future while living for today - at least covering the bases in whatever way possible for the unpredictable and unknown (perhaps a last gift for those we leave).

But I'm hoping this is it for a while. Three feels like plenty right now because in some ways, these are markers of time... and each of these women were significant in my life for different reasons. They were all part of my history.

For today, I am grateful and happy with where I am in my life. I am healthy, happy, gainfully employed working with good people, with a man I love and adore, and have a home in a location that's hard to beat. And I have exciting plans for my future that I intend to fulfill.

Onward, yes? There's a lot of life yet to be lived, and I don't want to waste a minute.

Dark days... and bright lights

The best thing about dark days is they're often followed by flashes of insight. If you can just sit with them a bit. And be willing to not have all the answers and then make space for them show up.

I've had a few dark days lately.

As winter hopefully comes to its dramatic end (snow on leap day!), glimpses of possibility made themselves visible. Today, during a challenging meditation and call out to guardian angels and spirit guides (just in case), a couple of insights presented themselves.

At last. Bright light - inspiring, actionable.

The lethargy lifts. I suddenly have more insight into what I should be, could be, doing for work.  And how everything ties together - my dreams, my goals, my skills, background, interests and passions. It just might be the most clarity I've had yet. While not the first time I've experienced profound insights (although I'm not quite sure I'd call this batch profound, but certainly enlightening and helpful), I finally feel like the pieces of a seemingly endless puzzle are coming together to create something whole. The proverbial big picture.

I'm not sure I'd say it's my life's work, or my calling, but I'm ready to explore. Maybe yes. Maybe no. But I'm willing to take some risks, put myself out there, try a few things, and see what happens. 2012 should be a good year - certainly an experimental, interesting one. I'll write more as I follow my new-found path and work to make things happen.

Practice makes better...

The way things are, and the way things were

I've often said, "There but for the grace..." in terms of where I am in life. I lament that I'm not further along with my career, at my age, that I haven't accomplished the proverbial more, that I haven't done so much of what I say I want.

But the truth is, given where I could be, it's rather miraculous that I made it this far. Growing up, I had no voice. I was taught to be obedient and do the 'right' thing. I learned that girls shouldn't be too smart. Competition wasn't encouraged, but pleasing others, or aquiessing, was.

In my teens, I had no guidance, no parameters. I looked for love and approval in all the wrong places. My best friends were troubled. The path I took was tough. I made bad choices. And while no longer part of my life for more years than not, many of those best friends are no longer living - their road was rougher than mine. There are some barely alive, a few live on and off the streets. No, not everyone I knew traveled that road, and many are doing well, but those closest to me during some very formative years - Shelley, Dorci, Huck, Lauri, Dawn - took a very different path. And that could have been me.

So I count my blessings and feel grateful for where I am when I remember. Somehow, I've traveled to a decent place with just a bare bones road map, some deep seated values unearthed during crisis, and a strong will to survive.

I still lament. I read the Art of Non-Conformity and my soul aches to be brave and do more. But my own realities slow me down. I don't feel smart enough, good enough, experienced enough, whole enough... hence my last post on not striving for perfection.

I say slow, because I'm know I'm moving forward, but the steps sometimes feel miniscule. Compassion helps. When I look back, recognize and accept, I can take those steps forward. I have walked through fears, rewritten stories, undone beliefs that were barriers. It's such a damn process, though, and I wish I just intrinsically knew that I can do whatever I choose. That I have the power to make it work.

I know that I have not settled. I have used sheer will to make my life non-standard in so many ways.

I have come a long way and I have time to go further and create the world I want. I intend to do at least some of the things I say I want to do. Travel, write, advocate. In a bigger, more satisfying way. I would love to do these professionally, but even to do more personally would be a greater step. The big picture is still unclear - in part because I've never let myself dream or trust I can create - but I want boats, water, healthy food, wellness, travel, nature, entertainment, culture, people to all factor in in some way. Flexibility to explore, experience, and learn are essential.

There's a part of me that feels very strongly that I am supposed to be more entrepreneurial. Over a number of years, I have taken classes, workshops, drafted plans, and talked with small business groups. But I guess I want a safety net, and I don't have one.

I want the courage to take more risks and do them more quickly. To let go of that rope, as a friend once suggested, and start something, create something.

Aiming for excellence, not perfection...

... and really, even excellence is subjective, so I'm not sure it's really a worthy goal. The bottom line is that I just want to write more blog posts, focus on things that matter - things I think we should all know about, to some degree care about (like air, water, garbage, food quality, each other, etc.), and maybe make some new connections. And not worry about waiting until I have a perfectly formed idea, or a perfectly written piece, or an original thought (of which really isn't possible anymore, only variations on themes, at least for the vast majority). Or until I'm really clear on where I want this blog to go next...

So what might I write more posts about?

Food and farms are big for me - and how they interconnect with our overall well-being - mentally and emotionally as well as our physical health. Fighting big ag and companies like Monsanto are worthy of effort, and of sharing information about. Supporting local farming businesses - including the newer urban neighborhood farms - is essential to make sure we have land for a nearby food supply.

Toxins are a big one, too. What we put on our skin gets sucked into our tissues, our cells, and every other part of us. And if it's full of toxic chemicals, well, hello. It's like a slow intravenous drip, sending poison into our bodies a drop at a time. I haven't yet read The Toxic Avenger, a book by a neighborhood author, but I'm curious. Prior to writing the book, she already lived a fairly au natural lifestyle, yet toxicity testing still revealed a high level of chemical crud in her blood. These particular additives have only been around the last 50 or 60 years... we don't really know what their long-term impact will be. Marketed as "safe," it's really just a guessing game, or a crap shoot. The FDA is a virtually useless agency, so if you're counting on them for protection through testing, well, don't.

Or maybe I'll write about the little things that piss me off, that I also think we should all be aware of, like the impact stupid drivers have on all the other drivers on the road. Like using the far left lane on the freeway as a cruising lane, rather than a passing lane. It's illegal, people! But obviously that law isn't enforced. Can you say accident? Or at the very least, the potentially damaging rise in blood pressure of those stuck behind the unconscious or self-serving driver.

These are things I might write about here. But what do these and other similar topics have to do with Growing Things? Maybe growing awareness, or growing responsibility toward others who either benefit or are inadvertently harmed by the choices I make. It's something I believe we all should be thinking more about. The impact we have on the world around us - whether in our own backyards, or in our global community.

We'll see. It's been a very long time since I've posted and writing is essential in my world.

May 25... and few signs of spring

It's May 25, just a few days before the Memorial Day weekend, and we've had about five days of spring since it began in March. The Memorial Day weekend is typically unpredictable and often, the weather is lousy (having worked a couple of weather-dependent Folklife festivals), but we usually have more sunny days leading up to the long weekend.

I've heard it's not supposed to be nice until July.  Really?  My garden is suffering, but my weeds and unwanted grass are happily growing and spreading. Plants and flowers that typically bloom earlier are about a month behind. I'm still wearing my down coat, and I've had the heat on in my car. This is not normal, even for gray, drizzly Seattle.

One of the new gardeners, Marion, got an early start, planting all things weather-resistent, and his garden is lush and beautiful, already offering up greens for salads.  The rest of us are fair-weathered and have little to show so far.

It's in the 90s in Savannah.  I'm here why???

Nothing says local like...

... Portlandia.  Eating out?  Ordering chicken?  Watch this episode to see just how far - well, relatively speaking - you can go when it comes to local.